


They Say The Ocean's Blue

by thecoloursinthegravel



Category: Twenty One Pilots
Genre: Gen, Potentially triggering, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-19
Updated: 2016-03-19
Packaged: 2018-05-27 18:21:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6294844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecoloursinthegravel/pseuds/thecoloursinthegravel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>But white noise is better than words, words, words, so many words. And burning is better than freezing because at least when you burn, you feel alive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	They Say The Ocean's Blue

He’s always so quiet.

And that scares him.

Tyler’s always so quiet now.

 

But Tyler’s trying.

_Hey. Hey. Hey. Hey, hey. Heyheyhey. Hey. Hey. Hey. Hey man. Hey. Heyheyheyheyhey. Hey. Hey, hey, hey. Hey. Sssshh. Ssshhh. Stop it. STOP IT. Ssssh. Ssssshh. Ssshhh-aaaAAAAAHHHHH_

_FUCK_

_FUCK_

_FUCK_

He can’t stop. Can’t stop. Can’t stop.

Every word. Every word. Every fucking word.

Every fucking sound. Sound. Sound. FUCK.

_Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Please? Please? Please? Pl Pl Pl Please. Fuck._

_One._

_Two._

_Three._

_One._

_Two._

_Three._

_One._

_Two._

_Two._

_Two._

_Two._

_Two._

“Hey,” he chokes out.

Finally.

 

Josh eyes him carefully, “Hey man, you alright?”

_No no no nonononono yep yep yep go on Tyler, go on, go on,_ “Yeah.”

It’s just so difficult.

“You’ve just been pretty quiet, you sure everything’s okay?”

_God, god, please stop asking questions, please stop, stopstopstop trying to make me talk, make me talk make me talk make me-_ “Yeah, man.” _You’ve got to go, Tyler, you’ve got to go, got to go, to go, go go go-_ “I’ve got to go.”

“Ty-“

“I’ll call you.”

And he’s walking, he’s running, he’s _sprinting_ because he needs to just get away from all these _words_. And his breath is heavy and his legs ache and his throat burns from breathing so hard but he can’t stop running. And he sees his door and thank god, thank god he was close to home, and he runs and fumbles for his key and his hand shakes as he finally gets it open and he’s still fucking running as he tries to head upstairs; until his legs protest and give way under him.

_Fuck fuck FUCK. No no no stand stand stand up, up Tyler, up Tyler, up Tyler, up Tyler_ “Up Tyler, up Tyler, up Tyler, up Tyler, up Tyler, UP UP UP UP, FUCK!” He huffs down into a broken heap. “You’re so weak,” he sobs.

A pile of bones and sweat and twitching and a racing, screaming mind. He didn’t want to keep mumbling the words under his breath, but he’d started and he couldn’t stop. It was so hard to just stop saying the words. Because they sounded like they needed to be said again. Because not saying them was like an itch he so desperately needed to scratch. Because his head was trying to make them sound right. Because his mouth needed to make that noise. Because it was never gonna stop hurting his head if he didn’t say it, get it out, think it over and over and over and over and over and-

_breathe_. But, _god,_ it’s so hard to breathe when he just needs to    get     it     out.

He knows how to get it out.

He pitifully, weakly, embarrassingly, drags himself across the floor to the bathroom. He feels so _heavy_. But he makes it and he pulls himself up into a sitting position against the side of the bath and the edge of the wall. He doesn’t remember why he feels so weak, so heavy. He was so strong. He used to be so _strong_.

But this happens every fucking time and it hurts. His bones are heavy weights and his muscles are like liquid and there’s not a single thing about him that feels like he’s floating right now. And it feels wrong and he feels ashamed because how can this be happening? He used to be so strong.

He leans his head against the cool tiles to the left of him and it makes his body feel more stable; just for a second. But his head is still hurting and the words that just won’t stop are making him feel sick. So he takes the disposable razor on the side of the bath and with shaking fingers sets it down beside him, before unlacing his shoe and sliding it off his foot. He slams the shoe again and again into the razor, trying desperately to crush away the plastic. The plastic finally cracks enough to pry away the razors inside, before he drops his hands to the floor, closing his eyes with his head hung low, miserably out of breath.

_Just pick up the razor, Tyler. Come on Tyler, pick it up, pick it up, lift your arm up, lift, lift, pick, pick, pick, pick, pick,_

He finds enough strength to lift his head and drags his arm up from his side, across his leg until it settles in his lap, barely holding onto the blade resting between his thumb and index finger. He slowly, purposefully pulls up his shirt and holds the blade to the soft skin close to his hip. And presses.

It didn’t make his head go quiet; it made it scream. It screamed colours and heat and noise, white, hot noise.

But white noise is better than words, words, words, so many _words_. And burning is better than freezing because at least when you burn, you feel _alive_.

Tyler grits his teeth and pushes and _fuck, you have to stop now_. He lets the razor drop to the floor and slumps backwards with a heavy sigh, closing his eyes and breathing through it all. And he feels shame and he feels hurt and he feels wrong but most of all, he feels relief. It was like a damn drug and Tyler couldn’t help but revel in the release of finally getting his fix. He built himself up to it; saying no, saying no, saying no, until he finally said yes and let himself do it. It was the one thing that made him feel like the words had stopped.

But they hadn’t, of course, and Tyler knew that. But for just one moment, he wanted to believe he’d finally managed to cut them out. One day he’s bound to go too far, cut too deep, lose too much blood. And really, truly, he doesn’t think he would mind.

**Author's Note:**

> Title: Drown by Tyler Joseph


End file.
